Читать книгу Sketches онлайн
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To meet me, Absalom!
‘And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart
Like a bruised reed is waiting to be broken;
How will its love for thee, as I depart,
Long for thine ear to catch its dying token!
It were so sweet, amid death’s gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!
‘And now farewell! ’tis hard to give thee up,
With death so like a gentle slumber on thee.
And thy dark sin—oh! I could drink the cup,
If from this woe its bitterness had won thee—
May God have called thee like a wanderer home,
My erring Absalom!’
He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child; then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And as a strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
About him decently, and left him there
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.
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